


Nayda

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Chronic Pain, Exophilia, F/F, Human/Monster Romance, Mentions of Suicide, Monster Lovers - Freeform, Reader Insert, Selkie - Freeform, depressed reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: You meet her on the beach, right after she saves you from the sea's cold embrace.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	Nayda

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! This is a piece commissioned by a user who wishes to remain anonymous. A fair warning to everyone out there that this is a bit dark, with a reader who suffers from chronic pain, depression, and anxiety. Mentions of suicide are made, but there is no active attempt to die.

The rain comes down harder, the drops thick and cold, hands almost numb already. Your knees clench around the surfboard tighter as you rise with an undeveloped wave, trying desperately to spot something worth riding. There, up ahead, you can see the water about to reach a peak. Instantly, you paddle over and around, facing towards the shore, keeping pace with the water until the wave overtakes the board. Not quickly, but not too slowly, you stand, one foot in front of the other, twisting your body to the side.

Then you glide with the ocean, adrenaline bringing forth a kind of serenity that you have never been able to achieve anywhere else. As the water curves, you make sure to compensate with the movement of your body against the board. For just a moment, the sea tunnels around you, blocking out the rain from hitting against your bare face and arms, and then you’re out, sharply turning to keep moving along with the wave. As it dies away, you might be crying, but you don’t think you’d be able to discern the tears from raindrops.

Throwing your legs back over the sides of your board, you close your eyes, taking in a deep breath. The high of riding the first wave slowly wears away as you bob up and down in the choppy waters, searching desperately for your next hit. The rain hits you as hard as hail, almost blinding your sight and obscuring anything more than a couple of yards away. You know that surfing in bad weather is beyond stupid, but you are too far gone to actually care. This is the first good day without a bit of pain you’ve had in weeks, and you aren’t going to miss your window of opportunity. After all, everyone says that exercising helps, right? Well, you’re fucking exercising.  
  


Another wave comes and goes, too small to be of any sort of thrill, so you paddle under and over the water, eyes blinking away the saltiness of the ocean against the freshness of the rain. Then, just barely through the thick mist over yonder, you see it. A mammoth. Something that would still be considered a risk, even in normal conditions. Mouth dry despite all the water surrounding you, you know that you need to ride it. With a calm you haven’t felt in years, you start paddling with deliberate efficiency, reaching for it with every bit of the strength you have left in your body.

You manage to catch it, though your board wobbles as you fight the sea for balance, and for a moment, everything is perfect. The wind hits your body, bringing every cell to attention, your lungs breath in the watery, cold air, your stomach hitting the back of your throat as you dip forward.

Then you slip.

The board shoots out from your feet, flying backward, and you are spiraling down into the unforgiving sea. The water folds over you like a truck, pulling you down beneath the surface, tumbling head over heels until you can’t even tell what’s up or down anymore. Your lungs are screaming by the time you manage to get a hold on your surroundings, but the moment you try swimming in the direction the bubbles are rising up to, your ankle jerks back. Fuck, it’s your leash, the surfboard must be caught on something on the ground, and you’re still attached to it.

You try to contort your body downwards, but the telltale tightening of an oncoming cramp hits. The muscles in your hands and sides seize, and you can’t bend over to undo the velcro around your ankle to save your life. Again, you try twisting your waist, but something sharp and hot pinches your leg, making you straighten up in pain. Your eyes are smarting in the salty water, yet you make another attempt to free yourself, trying desperately to somehow will the pain away in your body.

Like always, it doesn’t work.

Numb, exhausted, the air leaving your mouth in gentle puffs, you stop. A pinprick of light flickers overhead, the soft rumble of thunder flowing through the water. Floating, body feeling weightless, this feels almost… peaceful. More peace than what you have felt in a long, long time, and you know what? You can accept this. There might have been a time where you would have fought a little more, but that is a you that is long, long gone by now, swallowed up by suffering and agony.

There might have been many ways you’d thought you’d die, but this would be the most peaceful out of all. In the sea, where humanity first began, where you have spent the majority of your life, it seems like a fitting place for you to go. And to be free of everything that you have been experiencing? You close your eyes, letting the last of the air escape your mouth, waiting for the inevitable, last bit of smothering pain that will drown you before you are free.

It comes, your body doing it’s best to stay alive despite your mental preparation for the opposite, your lungs sucking in a large, gasping breath, sucking in nothing but salt water. Your vision fizzes, black spots dancing around the edges of your eyes, quickly overtaking your whole line of sight. Darkness embraces you, singing a song of home, and everything fades as you return your soul to the sea.

Something pressed into your stomach, and you vomit. Water comes out from your lungs, spilling onto the already damp sand, the burning becoming worse as your body expels any last trace of the ocean. Though your eyes burn, you manage to pry them open, sitting up and choking for air. What- how- you can’t even try to think, just breathe, _breathe,_ your chest trembling as you wheeze through the oxygen. Only once your body manages to recover, your eyes focus on a figure kneeling to your side, her hand resting on your stomach where she must have punched just a moment ago.

“Breathe.” She says, reaching over to place her knuckles on your forehead and cheek. “That’s it, breathe.”

“Why,” you cough, anger ripping through you like a tidal wave, “didn’t you let me die?”

There’s a pause, whoever it is taking in what you had said. “What?”

“Why didn’t you just let me _die?”_ You repeat, louder this time, sitting up and letting out one last cough. “You should have just left me there. _You should have let me drown!”_ Anger broils the inside of your stomach, hard, enraged breathes shaking your body to the core.

“I don’t- I don’t understand-” she tries reaching out again, but you slap her hand away.

Shakily, you scramble to your feet, trying desperately to avoid the touch of another person, the rain hitting your skin only in a misty haze. Only once you are on your feet, toes digging into the cool sand, do you notice that she is naked, freckles covering every inch of her skin. Her coppery hair is dark and stringy, still dripping from being in the water, most of it sticking along the path of her spine on her back.

“I just-” You try massaging your temples, trying to find some relief of the burning in your sinuses, focus coming in and out as a wave of dizziness threatens to take your legs. “I was _fine_ with it, alright? This would have been better for everyone if I had just died.“

"Well, I don’t accept that!” She stands, folding a dark bit of cloth in her arm. “Letting people die isn’t within my moral code-”

“I don’t care what you accept or don’t!” Your fingers begin to ache as the numbness wears away. “Dying is the better option, trust me.”

Her speckled cheeks pop out as she lets out a frustrated breath, finally standing. Only a few strands of her hair have dried, coiling softly as a breeze wisps by. “Fine.” She says, taking a step back, towards the waves. “Get dragged out by a riptide. I won’t save you this time.”

You feel like crying, but you won’t. Thunder echoes in the far distance, barely even audible from where you are. Actually killing yourself isn’t something you would do, no, you wouldn’t do that to other people, but drowning after your board got stuck in the reefs? An accident, at least, would make it seem to everyone else that you hadn’t intended to let go of your life so easily. Holding your arms around your chest, you watch your rescuer take a step into an oncoming wave, completely unbothered by the push of the water.

There is some strangeness to the way she carries herself, with the confidence of someone wearing the clothes of a king. There is no sense of vulnerability in her movements, no awareness that her naked form would be something to be ashamed of. Well, you reason with a bit of heat rising in your cheeks from staring, if you had a body like that, you wouldn’t be abashed to show it off, either. Once she is waist-high, the frothing grey obscuring anything below the water, she turns around, looking you over once as if to invite you to join her. When you don’t move, the corners of her mouth twist up, just for a moment, before she twists back around and dives into the ocean.

You don’t see any reddish bob peeking out from the waves, so you can’t tell if she is drowning herself or if she just has a ridiculous ability to hold her breath for more extended periods. Pink begins to bleed from the horizon, a portion of the thick and angry clouds dissipating after releasing their fury. As you turn around, looking for a pile of things you had left that would surely be soaking wet by now, you see nothing. Teeth gritting in your mouth, you try to limp up and down the stretch of sand, just in case you forgot where you set your stuff, still not finding anything.

Besides the fact that your shoes and towel are missing, there is no sign of your surfboard, and you don’t want to dare try the ocean’s patience for you again. Mouth in a thin line, you stand just at the water’s edge, chest still aching like the aftershocks of a fire. The touch of a cold wave against your toes sends little waves of shivers up your spine, the agony of almost freezing in the water slowly creeping up on you. Your fingers are stiff, the normal skin tone almost disturbingly paler, with a touch of blue. There’s no way you can swim back to the bordering reef in order to find your surfboard. It’s good as dead to you now.

Taking in a thick, gulping breath, you turn around to head back home, bare feet against the dark, wet asphalt. Anger slowly evaporated away, out through your chest and into the ground, and you are left with a sadness unimaginable to anyone else. Now you’re going to have to replace that board, and _goddamnit_ that thing was your absolute favorite. The way it glided effortlessly against the water was like a dream come to reality, the way it worked with your movements, even when you weren’t doing so hot, was like a miracle. Now it’s gone, and you don’t even think you can replace it.

The air is still thick with mist, and as the sun makes a final guest appearance in the clouds before it sets, the heat feels almost stiffening, like you are being strangled. Not nearly as bad as breathing in the ocean, but still, you think you can say that you prefer your air without the water. You wrap your arms around your chest, more of a comforting gesture than to keep out the cold, teeth gritting as you try to fully recover from almost drowning in the five minutes it takes to walk back home.

The house you live in has been in your family for generations. If not, then you probably wouldn’t be able to be as near to the beach as you are, since most of the little cabins spread through the coast are rich people’s second or third homes. Yours is a home big enough for an average sized family, though you’ve used one of the bedrooms as an in-home office, so you don’t have to go anywhere to make money. Instead, you get to sit on a rolly chair for hours at a time, sometimes having to wear your wrist braces to make sure you don’t bend anything if it’s one of _those_ days.

The screen door is unlocked, just as you left it, the house taking in the fresh air. Better than stifling yourself in staleness, you figured, and besides, the crime rate is relatively low. Except for the tourists who swing through every spring and summer, this is a kind of an ‘everyone knows everyone’ situation, which brings your thoughts back around to _her._ Your rescuer. Natural copper hair is rare in your area, most people have monotone brown to honey-blonde, but there is one family that you are aware of that sport it as a trophy of their Irish heritage.

Not that you plan on seeking her out or anything. You don’t believe that would be wise… especially after this incident. God, you think, unintentionally slamming the screen door as you enter, you’re such a dumbass. A stupid, insensitive dumbass. You could have absolutely thanked her, and you _should have,_ but you didn’t and now she thinks you’re awful and is probably going to her own family now and will tell everyone she knows that your a stupid, hateful person and everyone on the entire fucking coast is going to all know that you are the worst person to ever, _ever_ live here and-

You take a deep, shaking breath. Time to make… tea, something herbal with a natural relaxant to help lull you into a deep sleep. Still, even while you try to distract yourself by making every movement well thought out, something terrible buzzes in the back of your mind, itching to be heard and understood. The knots in your stomach take time to unravel, reminding you every moment possible that you are ungrateful, worthless, and should have died just barely an hour ago.

The water whistles from the pot, so you robotically walk over to the gas stove, killing the flow of fuel by twisting the chipped knob. Careful to wrap the stainless steel handle with a potholder, you lift the kettle, pouring the water into a ready mug, trying not to spill even with your hands trembling as they are. Soon enough, you are sitting on a couch, staring out the window as the moon begins to rise, hands warming up against the heated ceramic of your teacup. With your lights off, the brightest stars start to make an appearance, blinking brighter than the dim street lamps.

God, you’re so stupid.

Before you go to bed, you open up a few bottles of meds, most of them the kind that doctors give out if they don’t exactly know what’s going on, swallowing the correct dosage of each with a swig of hot tea. It takes a minute for everything to settle, your medications churning against your stomach wall, some of them threatening to make everything come back up. Sometimes you aren’t sure if you even want to take half of them, anyway, since you’re always coming so close to puking.

It takes quite a long while for everything to calm down, your mind included, for you to sleep. You wish that sleep was any better, you really do, but as your eyes close, the dreams creep into your bed with you. Things like crippling monotony turn to terror, doing something over and over and over again only for nothing to matter, for a beast coming to take you away, for death to settle inside your chest and for everything to stagnate and fail. When you wake, anxiety lies brittle in your stomach, whispering of something you should very much be afraid of but not specifying what.

Your mouth tastes like decay, and you realize numbly that you’ve forgotten to brush your teeth the night before ~~idiot~~ so you roll out of bed, making sure to do an extra good job this time to compensate for built up plaque. After that, you go through your fridge, trying to scrounge something up that’s worth eating. Ugh, you’ve needed to go grocery shopping for almost a week now, but you just haven’t felt like… um, actually doing it. But you _need_ food, you try telling yourself, looking around for your wallet, might as well go now before you lose all energy.

As you step onto your porch, something leaning against the house catches the corner of your eye. Too shocked to even think, you stop abruptly, slowly turning around, and holy… fuck.

It’s your surfboard. _The_ surfboard. The one you lost. Almost in a trance, you reach out, fingers brushing up against the polished, perfectly shaped wood. Sure, it’s missing its ankle strap, and the very front is covered in scuffs and scratches, but ~~oh my god oh my god oh my god~~ it’s _your_ surfboard!

You start crying.

It’s dumb of you to act like a child, you think, while tears burn your cheeks like hot coals, but you can’t really help it. Even though you had tried to act like it wasn’t that big of a deal, the relief of having your most precious possession returned is almost like reunited with a long-lost pet. Body now trembling with a reprieve, you lift the surfboard and bring it around to the back, where an old tool shed has been repurposed to keep most of your outdoor gear safe but out of the house.

The only reason you manage to part with your baby is by using one of those self-rewarding methods one of your childhood therapists have talked about; chore now, gratification later. If you can manage to shop for groceries to restock your fridge, you will let yourself go out in the shallows to ride the baby waves, though you’ve decided not to stray too far from shore for the foreseeable future.

There are only two groceries within the sleepy little town, each on an opposite side, and not too terribly different from one another, so you end up going to the closest one just for the convenience of a shorter distance. The air is hot today, thick with humidity, not a single cloud in the sky to give any kind of relief from the seething heat. The asphalt just beyond your steps shimmers, the waves of air looking exactly like puddles of water, almost fooling you the first time you see it.

Like most places, the grocery store blows on a refreshing blast of air the moment you step through the manual glass door. You pick up a beat-up, old, red plastic basket from the side, trying to mentally tally up a list of the things you need the most. Something fatty to take your morning meds with, a juice for a boost of sugar when you’re feeling tired, some vegetables to give your body a good dose of actual nutrients… Nothing too fancy, just the essentials to survive on.

You turn one of the aisle corners, finding a bright head of coppery-red hair, and come to a full stop. Oh, god, oh _no,_ it’s her. Before you can even begin to strategize how to make a graceful and expedient exit, she’s looking at you with a pair of cool, grey eyes. Calmly trying to ignore her in the guise of not remembering who she is, you look over the refrigerated deli section for as long as you would deem realistic, then pretend to just not find what you are looking for.

She doesn’t let you just walk away, though.

“You’re the girl from the beach,” she says, “last night.”

You aren’t going to lie, but you think you can try to downplay how close you were to a full-on mental breakdown. “Ri-ight,” you draw out the word, trying to come up with something believable. “Thank you for… that. I had been having a rough couple of days.”

“Found your board thingie floating out at sea. Brought it in.” She reaches over, picking up something covered in three layers of plastic.

You have to pause, taking a moment to fully process those words. This… she… _she_ was the one to retrieve your board from the ocean? That was her? Well, you mean, if it were to be anyone you would suppose it might be her, but still. Swallowing, you try your hand at thanking her again. “I- I mean, you have no idea how much that board means to me, really, so thank you so, so much for going back and getting it even in those conditions.

"It was on the way, no problem at all.”

“I really, really mean it,” you don’t think she understands how much that board means to you. “You have no idea. I thought it was lost.. um… it’s like an heirloom, losing it would kill me.”

Her eyes have a bit of crystalline blue in them, you realize, quickly looking away, so you don’t stare. Instead of calling you out on your facade of mental stability, instead of even mentioning it at all, she instead changes the subject. “I don’t know how to surf. Do you enjoy it?”

It’s like a switch goes off in your brain. _Everyone_ loves to talk about their passions, and you aren’t any kind of exception. “Oh, yes, it’s my favorite thing to do in the world. Just… the ocean, the energy you can get from it? It’s like something else. I can barely even describe it.”

“So you would suggest that someone like me learn how.”

“I mean,” you try to think, “it’s not for everyone, but you should give it a shot to see if you like it.”

“Hm.” She turns back to the roast beef she holds in her hands, eyeing it as though it will give her the answer to the universe. “I suppose I’ll need a teacher.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s tough to teach yourself.”

“Great.” She hands you the roast beef. “I’ll see you later then, at three, where I first found you. I’m Nayda, by the way.”

“Um-” you give her your name, “but wait-”

“See you soon.” Nayda takes a step back, twisting around and walking straight out the door, empty handed, her flannel-patterned shirt flapping against the fan. The bell sounds her exit, and you watch through the glass wall, astonished, as she wanders away towards the beach. She doesn’t _really_ expect you to just… she didn't… you _couldn’t…_

Your brain is a mess of confusing thoughts as you try to process what just happened, walking up to the checkout counter once everything has been collected to your satisfaction. Does she- Nayda, really expect you to show up at the beach, merely at her behest? Is this some sort of prank? Your mouth feels even more dry than usual as you leave the grocer’s to go back to your house, an arm full of food pressed up against your chest. Should you do it? You wonder, eyeing the beach as you pass it. Do you want to go?

Kind of, you realize when you get home, setting your things on the counter. And, to be entirely honest, you do owe her for finding and returning your board. Plus, you sort of want to, which is almost reason enough to not step foot outside for the rest of the day, but… This might be good for you to do. Go out and socialize. Show this person that you aren’t a suicidal dumbass… maybe mention, a little more forcefully, that you had just been having a rough week before anyone else catches wind of this. The last thing you need is for the three pastors who preach in the area to come knocking at your door.

So you make a late breakfast, trying to back on a respectable amount of carbs before doing something strenuous, hoping that your body functions as smoothly as possible. It takes longer than you’re willing to admit to pick out a swimsuit, one that fits around your body in a way that you’d like. With more anxiety than you should be feeling over this, you head back out to the shed, stepping into the sawdust scented area, looking for a board. Should you bring one for her? No… she must have at least rented one on her own; otherwise, you hope, she might have mentioned this beforehand. Besides, you aren’t so sure you want someone else’s hands all over your babies, especially someone you don’t even know that well.

You grab your favorite, the carefully carved wooden one, even though it’s still missing its ankle leash, and haul it out. While you had been trying to take it easy, there’s a telltale ache of something in your knee, spreading out through the nerves like a fire. Goddamnit, you were hoping the medication did its job today. Still, you think it’s going to be small, so maybe you can still enjoy yourself for the rest of the day without having to worry about something that may or may not happen.

On the way down to the beach, you see her hair before you see anything else. It shines in the light of the sun almost like a gemstone, brighter against the paleness of the sands, starkly contrasted in front of the ocean’s green. Surfboard tucked between your arm and hip, you walk down until the warm sand digs between your toes, stopping just shy of an arm’s length from Nayda, who, to her credit, actually carries a board of her own as well. And, and this is probably a crucial observation, is also wearing a swimsuit.

“Thanks for coming,” She says, setting her board on the ground to tie up her hair.

“Um, thanks for saving my baby.” You pat the wood, giving it a loving look before returning to reality.

“Oh, it’s not like I went looking for it or anything.” Nayda waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It was just… there, and I knew that there was a particular surfer who was missing her board. My cousin is the one who runs one of the board shops here, he was able to give me an ID of who owns it. Mostly because your name was etched on the side. Also, he wants to know how you’re doing.”

You offer a weak smile, knowing full well of the cousin she speaks of. There was once a time where you frequented his shop, but not so much anymore. Having people worry about you isn’t something that you enjoy too much, so hearing the question _how are you doing_ always winds up your stress levels. “I’m fine.”

Nayda gives you a look that clearly says that she doesn’t believe you. “Alright.”

Well, to her credit, Nayda’s a quick study. There’s a grace she possesses, a natural kind of balance that you had only noticed once you are out past the natural reef barrier. Her balance on the board is flawless once she figures out her feet placement with the aid of your instructions. As you put her on the smaller waves, you note how well she responds to any push or pull that the ocean dishes out. Almost as if she, like you, was made for the sea.

“Wow,” you try giving her some positive feedback. “Are you sure that you’ve never surfed before?”

“I’m pretty sure.” She sits, legs in the water, looking over the horizon with a gigantic grin on her face. “I’m just one with the sea.”

You shrug, following her gaze. “Okay, yeah, I can see it.”

The sun is setting before you know it, and even though your shoulder has decided to start killing you slowly, you power through it because Nayda’s company is legitimately fantastic to be in. She has an essence, you decide, walking back home, a kind of personality that pulls people in and makes others listen.

So you go back, the very next day. Same place. Same person. Same surfboard. Different drills.

Nayda eats seawater for the first time, slipping from her board from an unexpected bounce, and she falls headfirst into the wave. Before you can even think about worrying, she pops back up, laughing like a madman, eyes bright in the glinting sun. While the first couple of falls might be frustrating to anyone else, she takes it in stride, brushing the salty hair from her face, saying, “it just shows what needs to be improved.”

You remember her smile vividly, the natural pink of her lips like a dusty rose, and you find yourself returning again, despite the fact your knee and shoulder both decide to flare up during the night. There’s a bit of a limp as you walk, but it’s still something manageable so long as you take some extra-strength Motrin along with your morning meds. Still, a dull throb continues to pinch at the nerves in your shoulder throughout the day. None of that stops you from returning again. And again. And again. Even when your hip swells slightly, even when your elbow gives you trouble, even when the back of your neck is too stiff to move. Suddenly, you believe that _not_ surfing is alright, so long as you can watch _Nayda_ on her board, balanced, lithe, and, dare you say, _beautiful._

Until one morning you wake up and can’t move.

Well, correction, you _can_ move, but every time you do, something sharp poking through your nerves like a surge of needles sewing through your muscles. Even with your prescription medications, even with a near overdose of over the counter pain relievers, there’s still nothing that can be done in the hour it takes them to kick in, and once they do, it’s still a stiff kind of pain that exists, yet doesn’t. You can’t go to the beach on your own without any kind of assistance, much less ride out on your surfboard to beyond the reef.

So you stay in your house, anger churning in your stomach even more bitter and hot than the ache of your body.

It doesn’t get better the next day, no matter how much you had dared to hope. Or the next.

Or the one after that.

You hold your arms over your chest, glaring at your reflection in the mirror. Dark, pronounced crescents lay beneath your eyes, your skin turning sallow from lack of sunlight. The ancient sleeping clothes you wear are wrinkled within an inch of their life, a few scattered holes here and there from where the fabric has been worn through. A mess, you decide, adding toothpaste to your toothbrush to accomplish the bare minimum of self-care you are making yourself do in the evenings and mornings.

There are plenty of things for you to do if you think hard about it, you suppose. But… do you really want to clean your room? Dust corners of the house? Try your spine’s patience and load the dishwasher? Nothing sounds remotely appealing, so you don’t make any attempts to dredge up the energy to do so. Do you even want to try eating? You glance over to the refrigerator. Nope.

Before you can even head back to your room, there’s a knock at the door. Even before you reach for the handle, you see a flash of red just outside your kitchen window, so you know who it is. Guilt swamps your chest and stomach, god, you don’t think you ever tried reaching out to tell her that you won’t be going to the beach ~~you useless bastard.~~ Suddenly, you very much don’t want to answer her knocking, but she’s already seen and heard you, so it’s probably no use hiding. Taking in a deep, gulping breath, you unlock the deadbolt and open the door.

She’s smiling, and that’s what catches you off-guard. She’s _smiling_ and holding a pan of something covered in foil.

“Hey!” She holds it out for you. “My gran had leftovers from Sunday’s Carvery. I’d thought to swing by to drop some off.”

“Um… hi.” You stare at the red, square pan, unsure of what you should do. _Just take it._ ~~You don’t deserve it, though.~~ Thankfully, you don’t have to decide, as Nayda just sort of invites herself inside.

“I’ll just set it down here unless you’re hungry now. Dinner for breakfast sounds good, huh? Maybe I’ll bring you up some pancakes for breakfast for dinner later today.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh,” she waves her hand, not dismissing you, but more of an _it’s a long story_ kind of gesture. “I haven’t seen you in a while, figured you got sick. You can eat solids, right? If not, there’s plenty of mashed potato.”

_Nayda was worried about you,_ you realize like a broken lightbulb finally flickering to life. “You- you really didn’t have to-”

“Um, yeah,” she begins to mess with your oven’s settings, “but I actually want to. Make sure you’re okay, that is. No offense, hon, but you look like an absolute wreck.”

You let out a dry laugh. “No offense taken. I _feel_ like a wreck.”

"What can I do to help?”

Usually, you would just shrug things off and offer a weak _whatever, no big deal, I can handle it on my own,_ kind of excuse, but this time you actually pause. “I enjoy… your company, like… you know, you could just hang out here if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Nayda sets the pan down on the counter and takes a step towards you. “Of course! I also love being around you, _really.”_

You aren’t sure if you should blush or not, but the moment she takes your hands into her own your face heats up. Her grip isn’t hard, but it’s gentle and firm, her palms rough with calluses. “I mean it.”

You give a soft smile, a real, happy smile that must be the first one that you’ve made in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!


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